Just in case
by PlonkerOnDaLoose
Summary: When someone you love is sick, you tell them you love them, every time they leave the room. Just in case - GG's portrayal of cancer was, frankly, insulting
1. I

**A/N: **not going to lie, this is VERY personal thing to me, and I just thought, given how cancer was portrayed on the show (which, I found, be to honest, insulting) we needed a little injection of reality - though this fic, in fairness, is more me beating your over the head with a large wooden stick than an injection but, sure, who gives a mighty duck? Just warning you now, life doesn't happen like on _Grey's Anatomy_. Sorry

**A/N II:** is intended as one-shot but if people really like, might continue, seeing as it is a topic very close to my heart.

**...**

**Just in case. **

**...  
**

Serena's all soft when she finds him, only a ghost squeeze on his shoulder, just in case – but he knocks her off, all the same. Fixes his eyes on the skyline. The skyline doesn't change.

"You didn't have to come tonight. The Christening's not until tomorrow."

"I didn't have to. Or you didn't want me to."

"Of course we want you. You're the godfather."

The skyline is still there. It's always been there, and it will be there still, after.

"Can I ... do anything? Get you some water?"

"You could look at me."

They make do with each other's reflections in the dark glass. She's near tears and the person she's looking at, she doesn't recognise.

The poison is starting to infect everything. It seeps into all the empty spaces, oozes out his pores, twists his mouth into a sneer, makes his eyes glitter and seethe, he breathes it out with every word, every heartbeat, a noxious gas that eats up all the oxygen.

"Don't pretend you are doing this because."

Because is the end of his sentence.

"Because what, Chuck? Because we love you and want you to be a part of our child's life? Because we think you'll be a great godfather? Because– "

"Are you trying to make me happy, S?"

"Is this your way of saying thank you?"

"Is this your way of saying goodbye?"

"Hello," Serena says, very purposely. "Bonjour," she sobs. "Hola. Guten Tag. Aloha. Shalom. Jambo," and she doesn't say _ciáo_, because that means goodbye, too, just in case.

.

**...**

.

Nate comes to yell at him for making Serena cry because Dan's busy with the baby. Only he doesn't – yell, that is. Nobody yells, not anymore. Just in case.

.

**...**

.

The apartment door opens, lots of warm yellow light and noise, people on a chilly November evening.

"I don't believe it! You're here B! You're really here!"

Lots of touching, just to prove it, and then some squealing and jumping and hugging and clouds of golden hair swirling, brown bobs bouncing and heels going _click click click_, some frantic Morse code.

SOS

SOS

SOS

"You can let go of me now."

"But you might run off back to Paris!"

"S? Have you been crying?"

"OMG, is that– "

"What happened? Serena?"

Serena shuts the door behind her, shutting out that warm yellow light. Leans back against the wall, covers her face in her hands, cries for five minutes, and then they touch up their mascara and go back inside, and they hold hands, just in case.

.

**...**

.

The guest of honour is sleeping but her inclusion in the ranks of the religiously viable is a mere excuse for people to come home and drink too much champagne and talk about the good old days and pretend they were happy.

Dan is happy, he has never been so happy.

When the world gives, it takes away, otherwise we'd all be happy and everything would fall apart so Dan plants a feather kiss on Delilah's peachy fuzz and whispers, even though she's asleep, whispers, _I LOVE YOU_. Just in case.

.

**...**

.

She looks around the room. Rufus crooning to the baby. Jenny showing off her rock. Dan whispering with Lily, Lily looking tired and bothered and maternal, and Dan, uneasy – and pity? Nate looks on, arms folded, surly, chewing his lip.

There are two people missing.

"Where's Eric? I haven't seen him, in, like, years!"

Serena absently scans the room. "With Chuck, I guess."

"You invited Chuck!"

"He's my brother."

"He wasn't at your wedding."

"He was ... busy."

Blair raised an eyebrow. Serena changed the subject. "Be nice."

"Be nice? To Chuck Bass. You have got to be joking S."

"Well, I'm not. Things are ... different. So be nice, B, please."

Not wanting to sound morbid, she left out the compulsory just in case.

.

**...**

.

"Are you going to sit here all night?"

Eric knows not to expect an answer but that doesn't make it any easier.

"Oh well. If you can't beat them, the join then."

He folds himself, gracefully, to the floor, stretching out his long legs.

After a while, he says, "I got in."

It's like talking to yourself.

"The letter came this morning. Mom will make a big show and dance of it dinner, of course, but I wanted to tell you myself and ... and there is it."

How do you tell someone you applied to medical school because you need something long and longer to fill up your life? Because you feel guilty? Because you want to be able to help, actually help, not just fetching water and standing outside the bathroom – locked, hard – listening to the sound of vomit slapping the basin.

"Aren't you going to say something?"

Chuck tilts his head and the light catches him. His skin is translucent.

"What do you want me to say?"

Eric's temper sours.

"You could say congratulations."

"Congratulations."

"You could mean it."

He gets up, gets out, but lingers, long fingers tapering around the doorframe, for a second, waiting for a call that's never going to come. Hope does that to you, and he waits, just in case.

.

**...**

.

Lily goes in search of him before dinner. He's fallen asleep, curled up small on the couch, and she sits down beside him.

"Charles."

Her hand hovers a moment, unsure where to go, there's no hair to twist about her fingers, before rubbing his shoulder but it's going to take more than a mother's touch, more than a bandaid and an Oreo, more than a cool cloth to the forehead and lemon Jell-O and two Tylenol, it's going to take so much more to fix this mess. Sometimes being a mother isn't enough.

"Charles."

He doesn't wake, nor does she attempt to rouse him. How could she?

"Lil? Dinner is ready, everybody's waiti– Oh." Rufus kisses her head, looks down on the sleeping boy, and it's easy to see what he's thinking. She thinks it, all the time.

Thank God this isn't happening to my child.

"Dinner can wait."

Like that, plans change. Sometimes they're dinner plans. Sometimes they're bigger. Now Lily doesn't make plans, just in case.

.

**...**

.

From behind, she assumes he's wearing a hat (a truly unforgivable beanie thing) because he cut his hair and – because she can't say hello, it's been too long for that – can't say long time no see, Basshole, did you miss me? because she would die if he said no – can't say I didn't miss you, that's a lie – can't say sometimes, when they fuck me, I say your name, by accident – can't say I miss you – can't say I was wrong – so she says, with cheer and bright breeziness and force, "You cut your hair."

Maybe it's an accusation because she liked his hair.

But it seems inoffensive. An icebreaker.

Well, the room goes very cold and no one wants to breathe. He stiffens, visibly

"I wasn't aware I needed your permission."

And turns, slowly.

"I didn't know," she swears. "I didn't know."

She leaves, running, heels going _click click click – _SOSSOSSOSSOSSOSSOSSOS – and she leaves the bathroom door, unlocked, just in case.

.

**...**

.

Dinner is subdued, stiff conversation about tomorrow but it seems wrong to celebrate, in the circumstances. No one looks but everyone is looking. Lily announces Eric's acceptance to Harvard Med and a slow warmth spreads down the table, diffusing through the saturated air. It's a comforting thought, a doctor in the family.

"And when you're done," Rufus says, going from face to face, "we'll have a lawyer in the family." Nate. "And a doctor." Eric. "And a writer." Dan. "All we need is now is a priest."

No one wants to break this silence now. It pulses. It has life. If Rufus apologises, he will acknowledge that he's given up.

Chuck lets them stew.

Jenny is brave. "And what does that make Chuck?"

He says, "A monkey's uncle."

Gives her an almost smile and pushes back from the table. Nate rises, to follow, but Lily tugs him back. "Let him go."

"How can you say that?"

The baby starts crying. In the chaos, Blair slips away, bringing the bottle (a nice Chianti) with her, just in case.

.

**...**

.

He lost another fingernail this morning. It fell out, on to the kitchen counter, an empty clatter. A perfect yellow oval beside the protein shake. Dropped off. Gave up. Proof he's falling apart, dying, piece by rotting piece, but that's old news. He kept it, stashed it away in a shot glass. Maybe he'll buy superglue. It's laughable, but he has kept them all, just in case.

.

**...**

.

"You had cancer– "

"Have."

"Excuse me?"

"I have cancer."

"And you didn't tell me?"

"Sorry. I guess I must have missed the part where you're a part of my life."

"Don't be like that."

"Don't be like what? Blair? You left me here. Alone. Don't be like what?"

"Chuck. I know we ... had our differences and I'm sorry we ended like we did, but I still care about you. I really do. I always will. You've got to believe that." It's true but there are different kinds of truth. "I love you."

"That's too bad."

Only he means it, this time.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asks. They're not shouting now. "I would have... "

He looks up from the floor. "You would have what?"

She gets down on her knees in front of him, cups his face in her hands, thumbs tracing the sunken eyes, the bruises, hollows. The skin is waxy. She takes his hands instead, spindly spiders. Holds too tight and he winces, knuckles crack. Looks down, ashamed.

But she won't let him.

Catching his chin, tilts his face up to the light.

"I would have been here."

"Get out."

His words lash past her defences and draw red blood.

"Chuck. Please."

"Get. Out."

"Chuck, no– "

"Take your bleeding heart and your pity and get the fuck out of my life. Now. I don't need it. I don't need it and I don't need you."

She's still holds his hands, still crouched before him, her hands still on him. Can feel his pulse, shuddering through his throat.

"You don't mean that." She shakes her head. "You don't."

Tenderly, he peels her from him, folds up her hands so they're not empty. He brings them, little fists, up to his mouth and kisses the air around them. Then he gives them back.

"I need you to leave. I need you to leave, and go back, to Paris. You can't be here. I can't ... I can't take this. You. My heart can't ... take you."

She's crying. They always cry. He can't take it, he wasn't lying, and he pulls himself to his feet, up off the radiator and the wall and his spine cracks, a volley of machinegun fire, crackcrackcrackcrackcrack, all the vertebrae.

Calls after him. Her voice snaps.

"I'll wait."

He holds tight to the doorframe. Doesn't look back. Sinking.

"For what?"

The air is damp. It's hard to breath. A great stone has settled on her chest. Her throat burns.

"You have to fight."

Again, "For what?"

"For me."

"Guys?" It's Nate, peacekeeping, he should join the UN. "We're just about to run through tomorrow." Chuck follows his friend, and Nate reaches for his elbow and Chuck snarls, "I can walk."

Blair can hardly stand. Nate comes back for her, instead, and she clings to him like driftwood.

"Congratulations," she gabbles. "I saw Jenny's ring. It's lovely."

The Vanderbilt diamond.

"Thanks. She loved the flowers you sent."

"Have you set a date yet?"

"We're thinking soon. Really soon."

"A Christmas wedding. Nate, that sounds– "

"Corny. I know, but ..." he sighs and shrugs and sets her down on the couch. Looks at his shoes. They're nothing fancy, just Pumas. "Like I said. Soon."

Blair smoothens her skirt out over her knees. She smiles up at her old friend.

"I was going to say magical."

Nate tries to smile.

"Thanks, B. And you'll be there? I'm not taking no for an answer, you know. Paris will have to do without you. We've missed you around here. It's been ... safe. And normal. No drama."

Blair giggles and then Serena arrives with the baby and people can forget. But Lily has her eye on him, just in case.

.

**...**

.

It starts as a trickle. As nothing, but that's how all big things start. Or perhaps that is what they become. Mount Everest will one day be but a grain of sand, as inconceivable as it seems. Oh how the mighty have fallen. Look, oh lord, at what we have become. Dan points this out, because he's become more. He's standing on his own mountain watching Everest dissolve.

"Hey, man, you got– "

Brushes his nose. Dan's fingers come away clean. His come away red, an awful watery thing, like paint, not fully mixed. Diluted. It doesn't smell like salt. It smells like bleach.

Politely, he excuses himself, cupping a hand under his nose. Nothing has become an April shower, heavy droplets hitting his hand. Slams the door in Lily's face and there's a red handprint, glowing, on the white paint.

"Charles?"

"It's nothing. I'll be out in a minute."

She calls, through the bleached oak, she's paging Dr. Power, just in case.

.

**...**

.

She knows where they keep the key. Lily says something about space and privacy but Blair couldn't give a flying fuck. He's crumpled, kneeling by the toilet, knuckles white beneath the red – lots of red in the white bathroom – from holding on. She has never vomited the way he does now. She doesn't care about blood on her skirt. Throws a towel over his heaving shoulders, kneels, but there's no need to stick her fingers down his throat and there's no hair to hold back. Blair rubs his back in slow circles.

"I'm not going anywhere." The fiercest whisper. "I'm here. With you. You can't make me leave."

He raises his head and there is dark blood streaming from his eye sockets.

Blair screams. For a doctor.


	2. II

**A/N: **not going to lie, this is VERY personal thing to me, and I just thought, given how cancer was portrayed on the show (which, I found, be to honest, insulting) we needed a little injection of reality - though this fic, in fairness, is more me beating your over the head with a large wooden stick than an injection but, sure, who gives a mighty duck? Just warning you now, life doesn't happen like on _Grey's Anatomy_. Sorry

**_Dedicated to anyone and everyone who has suffered from cancer, either personally, or with a loved one. I know._**

**_My candle burns at both ends  
It will not last the night  
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends  
It gives a lovely light  
_Edna St. Vincent Millay**

**...**

**Just in case. **

**...**

Nate finds him, sitting on the bed, on top of the blankets, drawstring pants and a white t-shirt – so far removed from the days of silk and Egyptian cotton. Indian style, wrists resting on his knees, blue veins open to the white ceiling, tight like violin strings.

Mediating?

No, holding stress balls, squeezing, on and off, on and off, keeping the vessels open as the new blood flows in.

Nate stays in the anteroom, just watching. Out here, he can't hear the monitors. Having to hear a machine prove you're still alive is hard, but it's what happens when those steady beeps fail that Nate doesn't want to hear. So he hangs on, dawdling, chatting with the nurses, the plants, the furniture.

"Boy? Don't yo' have a home to go to? It's past two AM."

That's Donna, bustles out with a hydraulic hiss of glass door and a heavy squeak of tennis shoe, carrying a tray loaded with little vials of too-red blood. Mama Bear, a walking cliché, big old black nurse in awful floral scrubs, she envelopes Nate in her thick arms. Donna has had a lot of practice.

One look at his face is enough. She pats his arm. "I'll get a pillow."

Comes back with a pillow. Blankets, two cans of a Coke and a banana.

"Just in case yo' get hungry."

"Thanks, Donna."

"Be careful with ma' baby, now, hear me?"

Nate nods. "Of course."

Donna raises a sceptical eyebrow. Nate looks guilty.

"Don't yo' think for one minute that I have forgotten what happened _last_ time." Nate looks more guilty. "Go on, get in there. And don't be sharing that Coke!"

"Donna?"

"Yes?"

Nate points at the blood bag hanging over the bed. "Is that blood irradiated?"

Donna folds her arms. "Yes, Dr. Nate. That blood is irradiated. And ain't yo' supposed to be some kind o' lawyer?"

He's supposed to be a lot of things. He's supposed to be planning his wedding, supposed to be celebrating the birth of his niece, supposed to be sleeping. Not supposed to be here. Not supposed to be doing this. But he does it anyway.

Chuck's face bears a look of such serenity even to watch seems an intrusion. They've clean him up and the transfusion paints his gaunt cheeks a phony red.

"Hey."

Nate sits down, grasps his hands in his lap. Doesn't ask, are you okay? It feels so fake. So contrite. So pointless. If you're fucked up enough to need to poison bits of you to make you better, if you have blood coming out your eyes, clearly you're pretty fucking far from okay. Like, okay's the Sun and you're Pluto. Or whatever planet Jar Jar Binks came from, point is, a galaxy far far a-motherfucking-way.

No, Nate doesn't ask if he's okay. He knows that answer and he doesn't want to hear it.

Instead, asks, "How you feeling?"

Chuck holds up the central line between two long, thin fingers. Saline mixes go through the peripheral line, the IV inserted in the crook of his elbow, not the tri-pronged catheter that blossoms from his sternum. One tube is red, the other clear – the third is empty. Nate follows the clear line back to the bag.

Morphine, a 16-hour bag.

"That's good," he says, repeating the simple sentiment. "That's really good. Really good."

Transfusions are hard, red blood cells especially so, but Dr. Power says his haemoglobin is too low, and such his blood too acidic, all that lactic acid building up in the muscles from anaerobic respiration.

Nate actually understands her now, she's explained it that often. Less haemoglobin means less oxgyen absorbed by the blood in the lungs, meaning less oxygen is released in the cells, meaning the cells can't break down glucose fully as that requires oxygen, so instead they break it down to lactic acid – the stuff that makes you stiff after you exercise like crazy, when you can't breathe fast enough to keep up with your body.

They sit in silence for a while, Nate tosses the Coke from hand to hand. He's got the graveyard shift, pulled the short straw.

Instantly, feels guilty. Sitting with your best friend isn't the shortest straw. Only, this person, sitting, head bowed like a Buddhist monk, squeezing in time with his own heartbeat, this isn't Chuck Bass. This isn't the boy he watched Batman with on Saturday mornings in dinosaur pyjamas, this isn't the boy he once ran away with – all the way to West 145th Street, when they got hungry and decided to go back because Consuela, Nate's cook, was making brownies. This isn't the boy he shared his first drink with, hiding under the Captain's desk, this isn't the boy he did his first body shot off (a dare), this isn't the boy he lost sixty-eight grand with in Vegas and then tried to make it back by pimping out a very drunk Tripp. This isn't his best friend. This is someone else, this douche _stole_ his best friend and Nate doesn't fucking like him.

He has a sudden desire to punch something. Punch Chuck. Punch that shit inside of him that robbed him of his friend. He's getting married soon. Chuck's supposed to be his best man, they had it all planned out, since forever.

Is it so wrong to want your friend back?

Nate cracks open his coke. The hydraulic hiss startles Chuck, breaks his rhythm, and one of the balls slips from his fingers – fingers that Nate doesn't remember, not the ones he played thumb war with – and tumbles to the floor. Dead after one bounce. Nate slaps the ball back into his hands. Holds on.

"Don't do that again, okay? Please. You scared us."

"You think." Chuck's eyes open. "I'm not scaring myself."

Nate throws the Coke at the wall. It explodes. Sprays brown everywhere. They watch the bubbles, fizzle out. Nate apologises to the floor.

"Don't," Chuck says.

Nate drags on his hair. "How did everything get so ..."

"Fucked up?"

"Yeah. Fucked up. What happened to us? We were invincible."

"We? Nathaniel?"

Chuck's voice is pure ice.

Nate stamps to his feet, picks up the can, stamps into the antechamber, dumps it, calls for a nurses to come clean up the mess – he do it himself, only he'd do it wrong, and that'd be worse. There are worse things to clean up than some soda – and just stands there, arms folded, trying to stop himself from shaking.

"Don't you think I'm not going through this too, you selfish asshole. Don't you think that for one minute. And I don't have a fucking morphine drip."

.

**...**

.

Lily puts on the kettle. They all have tea. Tea is such a wonderful, wonderful thing. One should never underestimate tea. Dan produces a bottle of Maker's Mark and Serena declines the infusion, breast-feeding. So does Jenny.

"I'm going to clean the bathroom," Serena mutters. "I can't wait."

Dans says, "Gotta go, uh, check on the baby."

"I'm really tired, guys, I'm going to head." Jenny.

"Me too."

"And I will go call a cab. Yes, that is what I will do."

Rufus leaves them, Lily and Blair, with the tea. It takes Blair two shots to find her voice. She's wearing an old skirt and blouse of Serena's. Her hands stink of soap.

Lily is a merciful.

"I suppose you want to know why nobody told you?"

Nods meekly.

"I would have been there."

Lily lays a comforting hand over Blair's.

"I think that was the point, Blair."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that you're living your own life now, in Paris, and he didn't want to drag you back into his. Especially after parting the way you two did. He would have seen it as unfair, to ask that of you."

Blair snorts, she can't help it. Chuck Bass with cancer is still Chuck Bass.

Or is it?

She bits her lip.

"Doesn't matter," she says thickly. "I still – I would have come."

_I missed him. I didn't want to, I tried so hard not to, but I did._

"I know. And so does Charles."

"What's it like?"

Lily is very careful with her words. "It's hard, Blair. I'm not going to lie. He's not an easy patient."

A weak smile. "Somehow I don't find that hard to believe."

"Can I ask your plans?"

"I don't know. Lily, this, it's just hit me."

"Blair?"

"Yes?"

"If you're thinking of staying – and." Loudly, talking over Blair. "I can already see that you are – don't think it will be easy. Don't, for one minute, fool yourself that it's some grand succession of hospital waits and chicken soup and holding his hair back while he vomits. I speak metaphorically, of course. It's not a fever. It's cancer. And it's Charles. He won't allow anyone accompany him to chemotherapy sessions, God only knows we've tried, and I know I'm correct in thinking he only allows me to help because I've been through a similar experience ... Because I won't see him as weak."

Lily finishes and blows her nose.

"Weak?" Blair repeats. "He has _cancer_. He's _allowed_ be weak."

Lily looks at her like she's a little girl. Holds a hand to her cheek. Smoothens her curls like she did, years and years and years ago.

"Oh Blair. Don't you know him at all?"

.

**...**

.

Blair relieves Nate at seven. She's brought clean clothes, coffee.

"You've got a Christening to go to."

"Aren't you supposed to be the godmother?"

"Jenny's doing it. There'll be other kids in need of God. Go, you'll be late."

"Blair– "

She taps her Jimmy Choo.

"I'm the only one who's not a blood relative. It makes sense I stay here. Now go."

And she points, orders, and Nate obeys. He's too tired to fight.

.

**...**

.

"What are you doing here?"

"Good morning to you too sunshine."

"What are you doing here?"

"I preferred you asleep."

Blair returns to her iPad, scrolling down through the morning's papers. Glowing icon in the corner, a new message. Opens it. From Eleanor, asks why has she cancelled Friday's lunch. Won't you be back by then? How long is this Christening?

_I'm staying in New York_

Why?

_Chuck has cance_– Deletes it, lies, says something has come up. If she sends it, those little black letters, there will be indelible proof, forever in cyberspace. And she can't do that.

"What are you doing here?"

"For Christ's sake, Chuck, can't you see I'm trying here?"

The nurse comes in with breakfast. Orange juice and oatmeal. Chuck visibly greys.

Donna gives him a hard look. "Let me guess. You're not hungry. Huh?"

Shakes head.

"Well that's too bad, because I ain't leaving this room till you have eaten just about everything offa that plate. Yo' hear me? Now start."

Blair stares. "Excuse me, nurse, I don't th– "

"Excuse me?" Only it sounds more like _shut up, stupidass white girl, don't be telling me my business_. "But are you a nurse?"

"Well, no, but– "

"But what honey? Yo' either are a nurse, or yo' ain't. It's a simple enough question."

"I'm not."

"Well then I'd appreciated it if you don't be tellin' me how to do ma' job. What 'cho laughin' at? Less laughin', more eatin' oatmeal."

He manages two meagre spoons before vomiting. Blair excuses herself. It's too real. The smells, the sounds, the monitor's wail. Orange juice all over the floor.

Barricades herself in the ladies and sobs.

When she finds it inside herself to return, Donna has him eating plain crackers and jell-O. Now there are tubes up his nose.

"I've got other patients," she whispers, squeezing Blair's shoulder. "Make sure he eats everything. I be trustin' yo' now, honey."

Blair wants to call after the big woman, tells her she isn't trustworthy, but Donna is gone and they're alone in this cube. Chuck breaks a corner off a cracker and puts it in his mouth. Doesn't chew, sucks.

She can't think of anything to say so she tells the truth.

"When I saw you, last night, I thought you were someone else."

"I am."

He looks, almost, sorry for her.

"But you'll be okay, right? They can cure you, whatever you have? It's curable. Right?"

"Acute lymphoblastic leukaemia."

"What?"

"That's what I have."

"And they can cure that."

"Sure, Blair. All that time."

Chuck smiles but that only makes her cry harder. Can't tell if he's mocking her or not. Can't tell if he's lying or not. Can't tell if he means it or not. Can't tell if he wants it.

.

**...**

.

Plans change. They booked at Daniel, damn near booked out the entire restaurant, but it's takeaway in a hospital room instead. Daniel himself did it specially. Included a card, signed by Daniel Craig too, drinking a martini (stirred) at the bar with his lawyer.

"If James Bond tells you to get better, I think it'd be in your best interests to comply." Dan props the card on bedside locker. "He is, like, James Bond, license to kill and everything. And Daniel Craig is pretty scary. Those abs."

"He has a really big head," Eric says. "It's wildly out of proportion to the rest of his body"

"Can't say I, eh, noticed that. I was too busy looking at his pecs."

Serena nods. "Can we watch _Casino Royale_ tonight? Please?"

She's holding his hand, fingers all interlinked, bound tight, eating clumsily with her left. She has red fingernails, glossy and strong. He has three gauze cocoons.

"S," he mutters, eyes closed.

"Yeah?"

"I can't feel my fingers."

Serena swallows more than grilled courgette.

"Oh. Sorry."

Gifts him back his hand. Vicious pins and needles, has to massage them out and everything cracks, all those little bones that make up the hand. He's listening to them all, chattering away. They're here for him, he knows that, but all he can think about it is _they're_ not eating jell-O because they can't keep anything else down, _they're_ not sitting on pillows because last week's routine lumbar puncture is starting to ache again, _they're_ not using toothbrushes meant for barely teething toddlers because adult bristles rip their gums to shreds. They have normal platelet counts. Hair. Lives.

He knows they're here, for him, but he wishes they weren't. Looking at them makes it harder. Looking at them, whole people, lets him see what he's missing.

Whispers to Serena.

"You should have gone to Daniel."

Glares at him. Sets down her fork. Hands on hips.

"Jeez, Chuck. We weren't going to leave you here alone. When will you get it into your head that we want to be here. We want to be with you."

"When will you get it into your head that I don't want you to be here."

"All those in favour of leaving, say I. See? No one. Objection overruled. Now quit acting like a three-year-old and eat your jell-O."

Serena loads a spoon and makes aeroplane noises, zooming in closer and closer. Delilah wails from Jenny's lap.

"Aw, look," Jenny laughs. "She's jealous because you're getting all the attention."

Donna calls them at nine-thirty, because goodbyes take half an hour. When someone has cancer, you tell them you love them, every time you leave the room. Just in case.


	3. III

**A/N: **not going to lie, this is VERY personal thing to me, and I just thought, given how cancer was portrayed on the show (which, I found, be to honest, insulting) we needed a little injection of reality - though this fic, in fairness, is more me beating your over the head with a large wooden stick than an injection but, sure, who gives a mighty duck? Just warning you now, life doesn't happen like on _Grey's Anatomy_. Sorry

_Reviewers, you're too kind, here's a kiss_

**_Dedicated to anyone and everyone who has suffered from cancer, either personally, or with a loved one. I know._**

**_My candle burns at both ends  
It will not last the night  
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends  
It gives a lovely light  
_Edna St. Vincent Millay**

**...**

**Just in case. **

**...**

It's all those little things that you say, things you mean but don't. Not really. Not literally.

_I almost died when I saw the new Gucci bag_

It doesn't matter if they're not there when it slips out. Someone will give you the look, sometimes you stop yourself. They're always on your mind. Like a mouth ulcer. A baby. A tumour of your own, and you won't be well until it's gone. Either way, until it's gone.

_It's not the end of world_

It's a little sickening.

_Life is short_

Nothing is the same. The ordinary, the banal, becomes a guilty pleasure. Ice cream, nail polish, appointments at the hairdressers, your morning coffee, your nightly drink. Mouthwash, sleeping patterns, wearing perfume. A kiss.

_Calm down. It's all right. Nobody's going to die, are they? _

Theatre – because crowds could be fatal, all those germs. Restaurants – how can they eat? How can _you_ eat? Nights in, and you start to feel claustrophobic. Your home smells like a hospital, that sharp surgical clean, rubbing alcohol, lemon jell-O, dying flowers, disease.

_Drop dead_

Even if you can't smell it, it lingers.

_What would I do without you? _

And it always lingers.

.

**...**

.

He's standing, leaning on the window, hand flat on the glass. Wearing latex gloves in his own home. Blows smoke out into the air where is dissipates quickly, becoming just more Manhattan gunge.

"Are you _smoking?_"

He doesn't bother asking what she's doing here. How she got in. Blair tries to snatch the joint.

"Have you actually gone _insane_?"

"Would you rather I smoke hash or shoot morphine? I would do heroin but supposedly that's bad for one's health."

"Are you in pain?"

_Yes. Your eyes. You kill me when you look like you care. _

A small smile. "Oh. Always."

She tries, again, but he holds it up above her head. He's never been tall, but she's always been small.

"Then take one of the pills the doctor prescribed."

"And throw it back up an hour later? You don't know what you're talking about."

Chuck exhales in her face.

.

**...**

.

Serena dials Nate.

"You owe me," she sings, "twenty bucks. Cough up."

He groans.

"Blair came to vent today – three days after _you_ predicted she would."

"Well. Tell me. What got broken?"

"We saved the tea pot. Jenny protected it, she hid it under the sink, but then we forget where we put it and that was traumatic."

It's a very special teapot. It says:

_Tea Club_

_The first rule of Tea Club is _–_ you do not talk about Tea Club_

Serena recounts the conversation.

"She came in, threw her stuff down. Then she threw her shoe– "

"At you?"

"No, just threw it in general."

"She must've been pretty mad."

"Yeah. And I'd tell you, if you would shut up for, like, a second."

Apologies.

"She rants for a bit, basically saying what an unbelievably selfish, stubborn ass he is, about how he doesn't appreciate anything she does, he's ungrateful and cold and he won't allow her help, her locks doors, he won't eat, he won't talk – _Aaaaaaand_ she caught him smoking this morning."

"Cigarettes?"

"Hash."

Silence.

"Nate?" Serena commands.

"I thought you knew."

"Eh. No."

"It's opium-based, Carter Baizen gets it."

"Carter?"

"It's no big deal, okay. I've had some. It's clean. It totally knocks you out, S."

"Exactly."

"Look, it's Chuck ... I figure we're lucky it's hash and that he's not injecting heroin into his eyeballs or whatever."

"Eww. You can do that?"

She curls up on the couch, curls up her toes. Delilah plays on the rug. Experimenting. Serena wonders if Lego tastes nice. Like chicken?

"Do what?"

"Inject heroin into your eyeballs." Whispers it, just in case.

"And wow, you're easily sidetracked."

"Sorry." Yawns. "I'm pretty tired. Baby wouldn't sleep last night. No you wouldn't, no you wouldn't. Would you? You wouldn't sleep for mommy or daddy."

Nate has to clear his throat.

"Where was I?"

"Blair."

"Oh, yeah, okay. So she finishes yelling, then she yells in French for a bit and I have no idea about that, other than a lot of _merde_. And then she starts crying, does the whole, I'm a horrible person, he has cancer, I can't yell at him, blah blah blah. Nate, we've got to do something. It's totally unfair."

Nate is awkward. "Serena– "

"I know he's sick, Nate. I know. And I know he's in pain and I know everything sucks. I can see it with my own two eyes, you don't have to tell me. But he can't take it out on us. Blair's been trying really hard."

Nate is diplomatic. "Do you think she's trying a little too hard? She has been gone a while."

"She stayed, Nate."

Nate is stumped.

"She did." He nods. "She did." He sighs. "What do you want me to do S? I can try talking to him, but– "

"Brick wall. I know. I was just there."

"How is he?"

"He was asleep, actually."

"Alone?"

"No. Mom's there."

"Could she do it?"

"She won't. She's on his side."

Nate swears.

"I really don't want to, S. Call me chicken, but I do not want to have that conversation. I'd feel like such an asshole."

He's being painfully honest here. It's one of the side-effects. Everyone is more honest. Living under the shade of the biggest lie, there is no energy left for tiny shoots.

Telling yourself, every night, when you switch out the light, that the phone will not ring at three AM. It will not. It cannot. That's the lie.

"He's being an asshole. You're entitled to be one back."

"You do it, then. You're a better bitch."

"If it's a bitch fight, we're sending Jenny."

"Jenny's on his side," Nate confesses.

"Eric?" Serena suggests, tentatively. "But he's ... on Chuck's side. Rufus?"

"Switzerland."

"Vanessa?"

Nate snorts. "Like she'd come all the up here for that."

"Chuck funded her last movie, she owes him."

Delilah starts sucking on her toes. Serena has to stop at marvel. Babies are such beautiful creatures. Lies down beside her, content to just breathe in that smell. Powdery sleep and the sweetness of milk and her strawberry shampoo and love. Delilah grips her mother's pinky in a chubby fists, all smiles. All smiles. Babies are heavenly creatures.

"Dan?"

"He'll be back from Boston on Thursday. I can ask."

"On second thoughts, don't. They'll end up talking, I know it, and I'll feel like a failure."

"Or Dan could just punch him."

"Ah." Nate smiles. "Those were the days. We were young, carefree, innocent– "

Serena snorts.

"More innocent than we are now," Nate amends, and it's true. There were so many things they did not understand at seventeen, back when they were invincible, boundless, floating in a world of tomorrow where no one was too tired for sex and relaxing meant a glass of wine and reruns of _House_ or a foot massage, when one could go to Spain on a whim – go to Butter on a whim – when wearing the same t-shirt two days in succession was a penal offence, when no one knew the meaning of the words _just in case_.

.

**...**

.

I fear the Greeks, especially when they come bearing gifts.

Richio, the doorman, holds the bags. Jenny holds up empty hands.

"I come in peace."

He stands in the doorway, unsure.

"With groceries."

Eyes the brown paper bags with grave suspicion.

"Oh, move already."

She unloads the bags, item by item, perched up on the counter. He settles himself by the sink. Just in case.

"Okay, so we have, orange juice, ginger ale – I saw it was nearly empty yesterday – 7-Up, popsicles." Holds up the box. "It won't put itself in the icebox."

Chuck takes it from her, opens it with a knife. Without nails he can't grasp the cardboard flaps.

"Strawberry or blackcurrent?"

"Lime."

"Fuck off."

"Orange," she compromises.

"Strawberry," he decrees.

"I bought them."

Chuck raises an eyebrow. Or not.

"Fine. Strawberry." Rips back the plastic, talks with a full mouth. "But I call dibbs on orange next time so you'd better not eat them all."

He likes Jenny because she says things like _next time_. He did never _not_ like her, per say, but after Blair left, after Serena left and Nate and Dan and female Brooklyn, even Eric, left – well, they were the only ones left. Dan is his brother-in-law (Van der Bass-Humphrey lacks a certain panache), but Jenny's his sister.

"Cream crackers. Oatmeal. Hard candy – they didn't have any of the fruit ones, so I got mint. That cool?"

He nods. He can't taste anyway. It's to stimulate the salivary glands.

"Protein shake sachets. Oral rehydration sachets. Glucose tablets– " Taste like Halloween candy in December " –salt tablets. Iodine. Berocca. Echinacea. Assorted vitamins, iron supplements, copper, zinc, periodic table of elements, think fast."

Throws him the little bottles and he lines them up in the medicine cabinet, behind the open ones. His own private pharmacy. If he ever went bankrupt, he'd sell the painkillers and relocate to Mexico.

Mexico would be nice.

"Peanut butter," Jenny says, ignoring his grimace, laying it with loving defiance on the marble. "I can't see why you don't like it. It's got all the essential food groups. Carbs, fat, sugar and peanuts."

"I think my arteries are abused enough."

"Exactly. So a little peanut butter can't hurt."

He isn't convinced. Eyes the peanut with grave suspicion. Blair liked peanut on her Oreos.

"I got this white tea. The lady said it had, like, healing properties because it's less processed or something. I don't know. I figured we'd just try it. Whatever."

She goes to fill the kettle and he empties the bag.

Probiotic yoghurt – because all the bacteria in his intestine have been zapped, because the body is a disgusting place, because God is cruel and wants to torture him so more. Ironically, yoghurt doesn't come back up.

Oranges, for vitamin C, but the acid sometimes burns his tongue.

Limes, because deionised water – and he has to put iodine in it, even bottled water, just in case – is repulsive, and the lime neutralises the acid-base-whatever. He never listened to Mr. Pziser, if he could help it. The only kind of organic chemistry he was interested in didn't come in conjugate pairs.

Does he regret that now?

No.

Ignorance is bliss.

One of the patients at the clinic has flesh-eating bacteria at the site of his bone marrow transplant. Every day, they take him down to surgery and scrape off the dead shit. If it comes to that, he doesn't want to know. He does not want to know.

Chuck takes the last item from the bag.

Jenny senses something is wrong.

He's staring down at the carton.

She realises her mistake. Her mouth is all red.

Chuck slips the milk into the refrigerator.

"Have you ever heard of closing the stable door after the horse has bolted?"

Jenny hands him a steaming mug. "It's hall full, Chuck."

.

**...**

.

Carter pauses, turns around, cash still in hand.

"You know something, Bass?"

Chuck lights up, not interested. Smoke curls out his nostrils, tingling, burning, and he welcomes the sensation, the ensuing mist of calm made the more sweet.

"I'm sure you'll tell me anyway."

"You're a fucking asshole."

"Who called you? Serena?"

"Nate."

He's touched – Nate calling Carter Baizen takes something – but doesn't show it, never shows it.

"And what did Nathaniel have to say for himself?"

"He said he wanted to beat your sorry ass because you're being such a little bitch but you have leukaemia and he'd feel guilty. Me? I don't like you anyway."

"So hit me."

It's Carter's turn to sneer.

"I don't kick dogs."

"Hit me."

"Don't tempt me, man."

"Hit me."

Chuck stands up. Stubs out joint.

"Hit me."

Carter's shrewd. "Why?"

"Isn't it obvious?" It's hard to keep his voice steady.

Soft thwack of cash on the table, Carter's nicotine fingers flicking through it like a card shark. He leaves the money. "People care. I sure as Hell don't, but they do, and you owe them. Quit bitching and take it like a man. So you've got cancer. Think you're the only one?"

"Yes," Chuck says, simply, "I am."

.

**...**

.

"Lily said I'd find you here."

She drops back and sits down on the cold bench. Crosses and recrosses her ankles.

"Since when did you feed the ducks?"

_Since the day you left. _

"Someone had to."

He doesn't scatter the bread, so much as aims to kill.

"Stop playing the martyr Bass."

"Stop playing the wife."

"Stop being such a jerk."

"Stop acting like the past five years didn't happen."

"Stop acting like the past two weeks didn't happen."

He sounds so tired. Drops the last crust. Hands in his pockets, gives her a greyscale smile.

"Stop pretending, Blair. You've proved your point. You win. Game over. Go home."

"Pretending?" she repeats, proof of the Ice Queen she once was, before the red beret and black drainpipes. "You unimaginable bastard."

Slaps him.

Fuck just in case.


	4. IV

**A/N:** whooooooa, I have not been around here in that long! I know this isn't the fic most people are looking to see updated, but it's the only one that just needed some polishing, and, you know, might as well start somewhere. Don't hold your breath, but _Stockholm_ should be up by ... erm ... Sunday?

**A/N II: **anyone else just want to CHUNDER EVERYWHAAAAARE at this week's ep? _Love The Way You Lie_ ... and Chair? I cried, I am not going to lie. And you have got to love Jenny, she's just such a skank

* * *

**Just in case.**

**...  
**

On Thanksgiving, it's tradition to give thanks, just as a family, for each other, for good health and fortune, good food and math grades. A time to reflect, to pause and cherish all the beautiful things one has; one day free from wishing for all the things one doesn't. Between the cooking and the eating and the football watching, religious or not, you say a quick prayer, to whomever or whatever, for Grandma, who died last March, and for Lucky, died the March before that, and for the Patriots, because the new coach is fucking imbecile, and for your sister Sarah, starting chemo tomorrow.

One in nine Americans, somewhere, is suffering from cancer. One in nine families is sitting down for this Thanksgiving meal, thinking, what do I have to be thankful for? A recession means lost jobs, lost cars, perhaps lost houses. Cancer means lost mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, friends, neighbours, colleagues, pets. Cancer means lost lives – lives, in the plural. When someone you love is buried, a little bit of everyone they knew, every heart they touched, is buried with them.

On Thanksgiving, please, be thankful. Just in case.

.

**...**

.

"And you're not dressed yet." He tries to keep his tone neutral; it is, after all, Thanksgiving – but he is annoyed. Annoyed, because, while he attempts mission impossible, at home there is Thanksgiving, a warm room full of joyous, thankful people – and food. Lots of food.

"Why am I not surprised?"

Chuck doesn't look up from the papers fanned out across his desk.

"Did you forget? Thanksgiving? Family dinner?"

"Not going," he mutters.

Dan sits down. Clears his throat. Fists open and close. A business proposal, perhaps, and Chuck's eyes roll to meet his. His expression reads: you have sixty seconds, start.

"You see, Chuck, family dinner means a dinner – with the family. The whole family. And, though this might come as a shock, you too are encompassed in that collective noun and such, attendance is mandatory. Not even cancer exempts you. Sorry, man." Dan stands up. It's a short speech but everything's been said before. "So get dressed. Or don't. Whatever. Just come. It would mean a lot, to everybody."

"You done?"

Dan drags a hand down his face and bottles up the sigh, the scream, the sudden urge to throttle him, right now, and just get it fucking over with. He thinks of Serena.

"I came here to escort you to dinner, not to argue."

"There would be no need for an argument if you accept the simple fact that I will not be attending this year's rendezvous and, kindly, leave."

He could ask about next year, but that's an ace Dan does not want to play.

"There'll be mashed potatoes ... "

Chuck sighs, covers up his face with his hands. "I'm not going."

Dan doesn't do touchy-feely, and not with Chuck – he is, after all, no matter what, still Chuck Bass – but this is Thanksgiving, and he can't help wondering, looking down at this person – lost inside a Man of Aran knitted fisherman sweater, one of those ridiculous Russian furry flappy hat things, gloves and more gloves – is there enough left?

"Please. I'm telling you now, I'm not leaving here without you – plaid pyjamas or no plaid pyjamas – and you would not deprive me of turkey. Would you?"

"I can't."

"Can't what, Chuck?" Dan asks.

And here's where it all comes out.

"At Thanksgiving you're supposed to be thankful, yes? Go round the table and everyone throws in their two cents, I'm thankful everyone's here to share this meal, I'm thankful everyone's healthy, blah blah blah. I can't sit there, knowing everyone is thinking, thank fucking God I'm not him. Thank God I don't have cancer. Thank God I'm not dying."

"You're not dying," he says, quiet and strong. "You're coming to dinner. Now get dressed."

.

**...**

.**  
**

For once, just once, everything is perfect, and the mashed potatoes are sublime. Thick and creamy and buttery. Serena feeds Delilah off her spoon when Dan isn't looking. Blair dollops them out, so fast Nate has to come scurrying up the table, the anti-extinction squad. "What?" she demands. "What? They don't do Thanksgiving in Paris."

"Can you pass me the potatoes, Chuck?" Jenny chirps.

His hands shake a little at the heavy bowl, but the golden warmth seeps through the china, and through the latex, and he can almost taste it flowing in his veins. He doesn't trust them, not for eating, but breathes in deep as they pass.

Lily raising an inquiry eyebrow – there's alarm there, though well hidden. "Chuck? Are you all right?"

He smiles, sets down the potatoes.

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine."

And it's the golden truth.

(Take a picture. It lasts longer)

Jenny sneezes. There's some diplomatic restructuring of places, bumshuffle up and down the table ("No, it's just that I – er – really want to with Dan. Yes.") and then Blair and her mashed potatoes plonk down beside him.

She smells like butter and Parisian rain and sepia pictures. He breathes in, lets all those smells wrap around him, and he doesn't want to vomit.

"Chuck?" Blair's watching him, hawklike. "Chuck, are you okay?"

"Fine," he answers breezily.

She smiles coyly. "_Bon._"

She's too beautiful.

(Take a picture)

Jenny excuses herself. Nate rises, frowning, goes after her. "It's probably just a bug. I've been feeling really tired. No, seriously, Lily. I'm fine, I'm totally fine. We're just going to go home. I need to lie down." Nate has wrapped his sweater around her willowy shoulders. "I feel much better now, anyway. Seriously. Don't worry."

Chuck stands up.

They're not leaving because Jenny's overtired. They're leaving because she vomited (he can tell, the way she swallows) and, they're all sitting here, breathing the same oxygen. They're leaving for him.

"No," he says. "Stay."

There's much humming and hahing, but he claims tiredness – they need only look at him – and at least he's granted parole. Takes the elevator down to the lobby, curling his hands tight around the rails, but it's no use. Something sinks inside him, the smell of butter is gone, replaced by sour metallic spit. He waves Arthur away. He'll have to walk; it will take the better part of an hour (only fifteen blocks, and the first snow has long since melted), but he will have to walk. Motion sickness is like a sunset. Irreversible, until dawn.

"CHUCK!"

He turns, so very slowly, and Blair has already come running through the revolving doors (the sight of them, all that movement, he swallows hard). Her scarf waves out behind her like a white flag. "Chuck." Stops beside him. Frowns. "Are you ... walking?"

He keeps his mouth closed.

"Actually, a walk sounds fantastic. I ate a lot of potato." She smiles up at him, offers her arm. "Shall we?"

.

**...**

.**  
**

They walk apart, together on the same pavement. Its emptiness only exacerbates the hole between them and Blair, for the first time, wishes it were any other day. A digital clock hanging outside a drug store reads 6:42. Only five hours left, and she hasn't had pie yet.

The silent city acts as a microphone for the lone busker standing on the corner of 79th and Madison. Being Thanksgiving, nobody had the heart to evict the poor soul. He's young, wearing winter woollies, and strumming away at a battered old guitar. There's a red light and they come to a halt. Blair fishes in her purse for change. There's a slight wind, whispering in from the Hudson, and she hands him the crisp twenty – just in case.

He squirrels it away inside, keeps on playing, a private concert just for them.

"_Momma take this badge off of me. I can't use it anymore._"

Chuck has his hands in his pockets.

"_It's getting dark, too dark to see._"

The lights have just come on, they have that pinkish glow, an athlete in the blocks. Night is there on the horizon, rolling in off the ocean.

"_Feel like I'm knocking on Heaven's door_."

Chuck's hands are shaking inside his pockets.

"_Knock, knock, knocking on Heaven's door. Knock, knock, knocking on heaven's door._"

The light turns green. Blair lays a hand on his arm. "Come on. The light's green." Together, they walk across the road. The busker serenades them all down the street, his voice echoing off shop windows full of expensive shoes and no people.

"_Momma put my guns in the ground. I can't shoot them anymore. That long, black cloud is coming down."_

Down the opposite path, there's a little girl in a bright red coat skipping at her father's side. They're holding hands.

They both reach at the same time.

"_I feel like I'm knocking on Heaven's door._"

Blair watches the pair turn into Central Park. She looks up at him. "Do you, by any chance, have cinnamon?"

Chuck blinks. "Why?"

"I can't make Daddy's pie without cinnamon!" she exclaims, aghast. "Come on, come on! We have – precisely five hours – to find all the ingredients, bake a pie and eat it."

"There's a Starbucks that's always open, just on the next street." He's trying so hard right now, and she squeezes his hand (only a little, just in case) in acknowledgment. "We could steal their cinnamon shaker?"

.

**...**

.

Blair says, "It's hard to explain. You know, what they say, that you only truly realise what something's worth once it's gone. When I saw you, that night, when I came back ..."

Outside the kitchen window the sky is an unbroken black, and the clock on the oven blinks 00:42, but they're not bothered with things as menial as night and day, or time.

"Paris ..." She tries again. "Paris was ..."

I lived, without you, but with you, all the same. There wasn't a day when I didn't think of you – the amount of times I almost drunk-dialled you. I never deleted your number. I've a whole drawer full of postcards I wrote to you. Some of them even have stamps ... I don't know. Just in case, I guess. You're part of me, like it or not. There's nothing I can do about it, and, believe me, I've tried. And if you died, then that part of me would die too. Me choosing to live without you, so to speak, is different. It's completely different. And I don't choose that anymore. I haven't, for a long time. But, what you said to me, at the airport, when I left – that I was wrong, and that I'd come crawling back – it kept me away. I was just too proud – too much of a coward. I had to be right. But now ... Please. I'm crawling, Chuck, I'm on my hands and knees. Just like you said. You were right."

Say something, Chuck. Oh, God, say something."

He takes a breath. "I love you. I've always loved you. I will always love you."

"That's not enough, though, is it?"

The clock now reads 00:45. The little green numbers tick on, 00:47.

Blair crawls into his arms, they sit, kitchen floor, backs against the sink as the candles splutter and die and the pumpkin pie goes cold and crusty on the plates. It won't be eaten now. He rests his head against hers. He's as sorry as she is.


End file.
